


Closing Time

by blackkat



Series: Stupid MadaTobi AUs [20]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 12:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17766860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: It is, objectively, a tragedy, because when the asshole first walked into the café, Madara was pleased with the chance to ogle—his skinny jeans, while entirely ridiculous, are very skinny, and his shirt is worn thin enough to cling. His face isn't entirely terrible, either, or itwasn’t.It’s three minutes to closing, though, and Madara would gladly murder his face and his abs without mercy at this point.





	Closing Time

**Author's Note:**

> For an ask on my Tumblr: the least believable fanfic trope is that anyone in a cafe would let someone stay after hours just because they're cute. as a minimum wage employee, closing time means *please kindly escort yourself the fuck out*

“I,” Madara says viciously, “am going to _kill him_.”

Izuna hums, but it’s the noise he makes when he’s not actually paying attention and wants Madara to think he is. “Is this the one you were saying was so hot an hour ago?” he asks, double-checking that the dough for tomorrow’s bread is rising slowly and then recovering the tub.

Madara casts a glance back out into the shop, vaguely hoping it will be deserted, but no. The white-haired asshole who’s been there since lunch is _still there_ , occupying the table next to the window, and he’s still got his nose buried in a stack of papers even though it’s ten minutes till closing.

Vainly, Madara wishes he had an eject button for every seat in the shop. He wouldn’t use it _often_. Just on idiots who won't hurry up and _leave_. Madara's been here since ten in the morning, and it’s closing on nine at night. His feet _ache_. He’s managed to keep his temper through three assholes and two douchebags, and in the face of that—

“No one is hot enough to make up this,” he mutters, glaring out through the doors. He can't even start putting chairs up while the jerk with the papers is out there. The manager has _rules_.

“Well, looks like I'm done,” Izuna says, smug in the way only a sibling can be. He tugs off his apron and tosses it into the laundry bag, then pulls the tie from his hair and smirks at Madara. “I’ll head home. Have fun.”

Growling, Madara takes two steps forward, intending to throttle him, and Izuna laughs, ducking away and all but bolting for the back room. And the time clock, Madara thinks bitterly, turning to cast another glare at the oblivious asshole in the front. If Madara hurries, _maybe_ he can finish sweeping and mopping in an hour, and then catch the last train before they switch to the late-night schedule. If he can't, then he’ll have to go six extra stations and change twice, just to get to his stop, and he’d rather stab himself in the eye with one of Izuna's wooden spoons than have to deal with that after a long shift.

It is, objectively, a tragedy, because when the asshole first walked into the café, Madara was pleased with the chance to ogle—his skinny jeans, while entirely ridiculous, are _very_ skinny, and his shirt is worn thin enough to cling. His face isn't entirely terrible, either, or it _wasn’t_.

It’s three minutes to closing, though, and Madara would gladly murder his face _and_ his abs without mercy at this point.

Growling to himself, he shoves out into the front, not bothering to try for the rictus of a customer service smile. If the bastard wants to make a complaint about _unfriendly service_ and _rude waiters_ Madara will gladly take it, just as long as he can go _home_.

Loudly, pointedly, he starts gathering the equipment that needs to be washed—not as much of it as there could be, thankfully, but _still_. He could only clean up so much of it when the asshole by the window was hanging around, and probably about to ask for another coffee. Or some kind of drink that’s massively complicated and time-consuming, since that’s how Madara's life tends to go.

Mito was supposed to close today. Madara doesn’t _care_ if she’s down with a cold that has a passing resemblance to the Bubonic Plague, he still _hates her_ for dumping her shift on him.

Finally, _finally_ , the clock hits nine, and Madara lets out a breath of relief. Because he’s a nice person, he doesn’t immediately drag the asshole _who’s still by the window_ out onto the street by his scruff, but drags his tub of dishes to the dishwasher in the back, rinses them, loads it, runs it, and sets the dishes out to airdry before he heads back into the café.

The table’s still occupied, and no matter how long Madara spent staring at the pale curve of the man’s throat, he’s _not okay with this_.

Girding himself, Madara grits his teeth, hopes that the asshole isn't so much of an asshole that he’ll yell—because Madara will yell back, and that’s bad for all involved, particularly Madara and his ability to pay his rent this month—then straightens his apron and marches over to the idiot, who’s half-hidden behind piles of papers and textbooks.

He’s wearing black-framed glasses. It would have been cute an hour ago.

“Excuse me,” Madara says, and adds, “ _sir_ ,” even though it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. The idiot is younger than him. He’s also not reacting, pencil still scratching furiously at a long line of equations that have far more letters and symbols than numbers.

Gritting his teeth, Madara clears his throat at loudly as humanly possible, and snaps, “ _Sir_!”

It’s mildly satisfying to watch the man startle so hard he drops his pencil and almost falls out of his seat. Wide red eyes jerk up, then narrow, and he opens his mouth. Madara braces for anger, for indignation—

The man blinks, looks at the half-darkened interior of the café, the complete lack of people, and stops short.

“Oh,” he says, a little bewilderedly, and drags his glasses off to rub at his eyes. “You’re closing?”

“We closed,” Madara says, and refuses to think he’s cute. He has _facial tattoos_. Madara objects to that on principle, even if they do make his sharp cheekbones look even sharper. It doesn’t matter; he’s sitting in Madara's café after hours and that makes him an enemy. “Ten minutes ago.”

The man mutters a curse—directed at himself rather than Madara, which is a nice change from _most_ of the people Madara has to kick out. “Apologies,” he says, a little stiffly, but he stands and starts quickly gathering his things, shutting his laptop and calculator and shoving papers back into folders. They're color-coded. It’s disgusting, and definitely not charming. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Madara doesn’t point out that he was sitting right next to the window, clearly able to see the street lights come on and night falling. It’s just slightly possible that Madara knows what it’s like to get so caught up in something, though _he_ at least generally has the decency not to do it in a public place where other people are trying to do their jobs.

“Just after nine,” he says, even though the man probably knows that. By rights, Madara should probably ask if he can get him anything before he leaves, but that’s another thing Madara would rather shove a spoon through his eye than do. He’s already locked the fridge and the dessert case, and like hell he’s opening it for anyone but his manager, or possibly a god. No, not even a god; they can go to the diner down the street like everyone else.

“Damn,” the man mutters, but he shoves his things into a protesting bookbag that looks like it’s about to come apart at the seams and shoulders it, grabbing his coat off the chair. It’s mildly gratifying that he doesn’t even pause to put it on, just collects his coffee cup and crumb-littered napkin, shoves the latter into the former, and nods to Madara.

“My apologies for keeping you,” he says, and is out the door before Madara can even start to tell him he can take that bit of trash.

The bell chimes as the door falls shut, and Madara slowly closes his mouth in the silence. Less than sixty seconds between him approaching the man and his departure. That was…surprisingly painless. It certainly went better than the last few people Madara had to chivy out of the building.

He’s still an asshole for staying so late, though.

With a huff, Madara eyes the now-unoccupied table, then goes to turn the sign over and get a bleach cloth. If he hurries through the last of the closing, he might actually make his train after all.

 

 

Mito looks like a resurrected corpse, pasty white under her usual tan and not nearly as put together as normal, and Madara gives her a careful berth as he takes his place at the cash register.

“Is it even legal for you to be here?” he asks suspiciously.

Mito's normally flawless makeup is entirely absent, and she gives him a look that’s probably the last thing several muggers ever saw. “I,” she says witheringly, “have student loans to pay. I don’t care about the laws of man.”

It’s especially intimidating because she sounds like she’s been swallowing gravel, but Madara isn't about to argue. “Don’t faint in the pastry case,” he tells her snidely, and she kicks him in the calf as she passes. Hard, because those flats she wears are _pointy_.

“Witch!” Madara hisses after her, but she ignores him, vanishing into the kitchen. Izuna's voice floats up in response, laughing, and then there's a yelp. Definitely not Mito's, but Madara can't bring himself to defend his little brother’s honor. Izuna probably deserves it. He usually does.

The chime of the bell in the otherwise quiet café draws Madara's attention, and he glances towards the door, then can't help a scowl. The white-haired asshole from yesterday is there, though he doesn’t seem to be carrying a bookbag this time, and his fashion sense is just as ridiculous today as it was before. Skinny jeans and a leather jacket, Madara thinks, and refuses to acknowledge that he’s staring at the man’s legs. That’s _ridiculous_. Does he think he’s a rebel?

…Actually, those might be the skinny jeans from yesterday. Madara squints, but he was so eager to get home that he can't say for certain. Still, between the books from yesterday, the rings under his eyes, and the possible lack of clean laundry, he’s willing to put his money on this being a grad student.

“Table for one?” he asks, already reaching for a menu as he hides a grimace. It’s one in the afternoon; if yesterday’s visit was any indication, the man will be planted at a table at least until closing, and Madara can already feel a headache kindling.

“No,” the man says, and flicks a glance at the menu above the counter before he says, “A latte with two extra shots of espresso, to go, and a blueberry scone.”

Madara squashes a suspicious frown, but rings him up. “Eight dollars and seventy-five cents,” he says, and then blinks as a twenty drops into their tip jar. Brow rising, he takes the money the man hands him—exact change, that _never_ happens—and glances up to meet red eyes.

“An apology,” the man says with a shrug. “For not minding my time last night.”

 _You don’t have to do that_ , Madara wants to say, but—that twenty will cover his subway fares for two weeks. If the man’s so eager to part with his cash, Madara isn't about to correct him.

“Thank you,” he says instead, still slightly suspicious, but he turns away to get the scone and wraps it quickly, then pushes it across the counter.

The half-smile he gets in response is wry, and the man takes the bag, tucking it into his pocket. “I've been told I can be…focused,” he says, and Madara snorts before he can help it.

“You didn’t move for almost seven hours,” he says. “I think that makes it _obsessive_ , not focused.”

He doesn’t deny the accusation, just watches Madara draw the shots with interest. “Still,” he says. “I'm sorry for the inconvenience.”

He means it, Madara thinks, and is almost surprised by the realization. “It wasn’t,” he says, which is a white lie, but fine. He made his train, so he can't complain. Well, can't complain _overly_ much. But something makes him open his mouth, drives him to say, “We’re open later on Friday and the weekend, if you need extra time.” Because clearly, Madara is a masochist.

White brows rise, and the man tips his head in acknowledgement. “Do you work those days?” he asks, and—

 _Oh_ , Madara thinks, a little startled, and looks him over one more time.

“Fridays,” he says, and smirks at the man, setting his coffee down on the bar. “Not the closing shift, though.”

It’s intriguing to watch the red color the tips of the man’s ears. He looks down at his coffee instead of at Madara, picking it up, and Madara may give his hand more attention than it strictly deserves. Long, slender fingers, and a hint of more red tattoos curling over his wrist beneath the bracelet of bulky wooden beads he’s wearing. “Noted,” he says, and Madara braces himself for offers of a date, for a request for his phone number, for—

The man steps back, nods at Madara in thanks, and turns away. Without another word, he makes for the door, just as Madara hears steps behind him.

“Was that Tobirama?” Mito asks, leaning past him to peer out the window.

“Tobirama,” Madara repeats, and closes his fingers over the edge of the counter, trying not to think about the touch of color in that pale face, or the way he looked in his glasses last night. Shaking himself, he glances at Mito, and asks, “Skinny jeans? Leather jacket? The stupidest attempt at edgy ever?”

“Shut up,” Mito says, and rubs her temple. Madara could tell her she has a streak of white batter smeared through her hair, but where would be the fun in that? “That’s my girlfriend’s little cousin you're talking about.”

Madara has met Tōka, and now that he considers it, he can see the resemblance between Mito's pet hyena and Tobirama. “He’s an asshole,” he says waspishly, because _they have the same killer cheekbones_ would imply that he’s been looking, and then Mito will either take offense or be amused and hold it over his head for the rest of their lives. It’s hard to say which is worse. No, wait, the amusement is worse, Madara is sure of it. “I had to kick him out last night.”

Mito snorts. “I usually wake him up from his trance half an hour before closing,” she says. “He probably didn’t even realize I wasn’t on shift. He’s normally good about that.”

Purely on principle, Madara refuses to be charmed. “We’ll see,” he says witheringly.

He’s not glad Friday is only two days away. That would be ridiculous, inane, and also stupid. Tobirama is an ass, and Madara isn't going to forget that, no matter how cute it’s possible that he is.


End file.
